


No Peace for the Wicked (You Can Be Flawed Enough But Perfect for a Person Mix)

by misbegotten



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: M/M, Magic Made Them Do It, PWP, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-22 00:26:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8265991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misbegotten/pseuds/misbegotten
Summary: "You'll be sorry," she says. She isn't an old crone. She doesn't have warts, or a broom, or the paraphernalia of hexes and charms. But when she says those words, James feels a frisson of unease.





	

**Author's Note:**

> My Halloween piece (way too early) and the next in what is turning into a proper little tropes series. This time it's "magic made them do it." How do I get two coppers through "magic made them do it"? I asked the BFF. She was confident I could. Let's hope so.
> 
> "You Can Be Flawed Enough..." is from You+Me's [You and Me](https://youtu.be/nNnBcCk7eDA).

"You'll be sorry," she says. She isn't an old crone. She doesn't have warts, or a broom, or the paraphernalia of hexes and charms. But when she says those words, James feels a frisson of unease.

*

His dreams are plagued by thoughts unuttered in the light of day. Unflinching he may be to Robbie's presence at his side amidst a crime scene, or sitting at the pub after a long case, or even slumped on the guv's couch trying to unwind them both with the strumming of his guitar. Tried and true techniques, true to his vow not to let Robbie know.

His dreams have become littered with things unsaid, though. "I love you," James whispers in Robbie's ear. And "I want to taste your scent. I want to catalogue the wonders of your body. I want to analyse you for evidence, seal you in a bag, protect you from all the hurts of the world. I _want_."

And Robbie responds. Not with horror, or laughter, or anything but a kind of calm acceptance that strikes James to his core.

"I know," Robbie says. "I've known, but had naught to say in return." His hand is gentle on James' face, cupping his chin, bringing him in for a chaste kiss. "I haven't known how."

James burns, and Robbie's warm flesh against his consumes them both.

*

Daytime is a nightmare of careful silences and tentative edging round each other's personal space. The case is going nowhere. They release the woman, but a fire is stoked in her glance at James as she departs, otherwise impassive in her stance. "You'll be sorry," echoes in the room, though she hasn't bothered repeating the words. They can't be undone.

*

Robbie peels James' clothes from him reverently. Tie carefully undone. James knows a dozen ways to fashion a tie into a workable knot, but Robbie is never stymied. Jacket placed aside, careful not to wrinkle the fabric. The unfastening of each button is sweet torture, cool night air creeping along the path of his chest as Robbie reveals the pale flesh beneath. Discarded shirt, and finally Robbie moves to James' trousers, freeing the flies and letting the silky fabric pool around James' feet. Where he left his socks and shoes, James cannot remember. He's left with only his underwear to stall Robbie's careful assault, and that can't disguise the pressing want that threatens to singe the edges of his control. The cloth yields where his body does not, and he's laid bare. Humiliating, exhilarating want overtakes him.

*

Coffee makes no dent in James' fog, nor does the constant battle to keep his eyes open do anything to soothe his nerves. Robbie places a comforting hand on James' shoulder and then pulls away quickly, as if stung by the touch. James feels bereft.

*

Robbie is in James' bed, laid out like an offering. He's self-conscious, James knows, about his physique. James is edges and corners; Robbie is rounded, past middle-aged and generally comfortable in his skin. But obviously not now. Not when James is considering him like the first course of a feast.

James lets his hands wander, trailing down Robbie's chest, following the downy hair to the curve of Robbie's belly and then lower, to the jutting evidence of Robbie's need. And James finally, _finally_ touches. Robbie lets out a slight sound, a moan nearly indistinguishable from the breeze outside the open window. The wind stirs to a mournful wail and Robbie echoes it as James takes hold of Robbie's cock. It's hard and yet yielding, weeping for James to taste, inhale its scent, to suck. To imagine so much more.

*

They don’t make eye contact. Stay on opposite sides of the body. Dr. Hobson shoots them a puzzled glance, but continues with her grim recitation of trauma inflicted and the inevitable, sad result.

*

James grunts as Robbie pushes into him. Not pushes so much as inches, because Robbie would never inflict pain on James knowingly. There's plenty of slick -- artificial and sweat and the sliding glide of leaking cocks mutually pleasured. But this, Robbie's first incursion into James' depths, is enough to knock a pleased, hard sound out of James and Robbie knows him well enough that he keeps going. Agonizing, beautiful movement, delving deeper until James can feel nothing but divine light and longing for more, _more_. A never-ending cacophony of mineyoursbrandmemarkmeneverleaveme.

*

She's cleared of all charges. Robbie takes her aside, puts a quiet word in her ear. She listens, but her eye is still on James. He does not flinch, though his senses are on overload and he's exhausted from the strain of not feeling too much, not blurting out his secrets.

She leaves, and something leaves in the air with her. It's less oppressive, somehow, and Robbie comes to James' side. He says nothing, just rocks on his heels and finally bumps James' shoulder with his own. "Let's go back to yours. I could do with some music."

Music. "Where words leave off, music begins," Heine wrote. Maybe music can mend the fractured bits of James' psyche.

He has his guitar – he always has his guitar – and Robbie perches on the couch as James settles into the corner to play something nameless and longing. He's not doing a job of clearing his head. He's doing worse at clearing his heart.

And then Robbie is there, by his side. Cupping a hand to James' chin, lifting his head to meet Robbie's gaze. 

"There's been naught to say, because I felt a fool," Robbie says quietly. "I thought you couldn't possibly feel what I was feeling. I thought _I_ couldn't. Not now, after so long. I couldn't lose you as a friend."

"Never," James manages, his voice hoarse. "That would never happen." A friend, he thinks. It's not enough.

"I can't lose you as more, either," Robbie continues. And his lips meet James'. Not chaste. Needy, a little dirty, oh so perfect for the want that James has bottled inside. "I know how, now," Robbie adds. His tongue chases James', his hands are sliding into James' shirt and popping buttons that will never be repaired. James will collect them later, put them aside in an evidence bag marked with the date and time. But now, it's just Robbie's hands on his body, Robbie stripping him, Robbie tasting and licking and marking him.

Dear God, how James has _wanted_.

"You'll be sorry," she said.

She couldn't have been more wrong.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [No Peace for the Wicked (podfic)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10024403) by [Caveat_Lector](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caveat_Lector/pseuds/Caveat_Lector)




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